


Never a Saint

by fluffernutter8



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M, POV Male Character, Season 4/Season 1 AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-31
Updated: 2014-10-31
Packaged: 2018-02-23 09:53:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2543297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fluffernutter8/pseuds/fluffernutter8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Angel accidentally wakes up with her one more morning. That doesn't mean that everything goes smoothly. IWRY AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never a Saint

Angel wakes to find Cordelia beside him, flipping through a magazine. He’s groggy and his head is absolutely splitting. When he reaches up, he finds a large, tender bump on the back, but doesn’t feel blood. The last thing he remembers is laughing as he told Buffy _You couldn’t possibly. I mean, not that I wouldn’t…!_ and her shaking her head before tilting it and saying, half shy and half erotic, _Well, one more can’t hurt. Just for good luck_. He had laughed and pulled her toward him, but the sheets had shifted from hours of the two of them jostling them about and he had slid off…

He tests his voice- “Cordelia”- and decides that that will have to be enough of a cue for now. He’d forgotten how much humans could be hurt by so little.

She puts down her magazine. “Ugh, finally. You’ve been asleep forever and there’s only so many times you can read about how happy Jennifer and Brad are, but Buffy said that I couldn’t leave on pain of death, and as grave an error in judgment as that sweater was yesterday, I think that a Buffy mauling because I ditched you isn’t the kind of thing that can be healed with a little Mohra blood.”

“I liked that sweater,” he says, a bit dazed, and then, as if he’s finally puzzled through her speech, “Where’s Buffy?”

Cordelia waves her hand. “She called me and Doyle to help after you had your little incident here, so we came back and clocked in and while we were deciding what to do, Doyle had a vision, so Buffy went to do a little demon smackdown. I guess that’s what happens when you leave her high and dry.”

Angel is trying to decide which part of that needs more explanation, but ends up just leaving it and tries sitting up. He’s dizzy, but clearing a little. And then Buffy walks into the room and his smile perches itself on his face and he forgets everything, looking at her.

“Hey,” he says, voice still gravel.

She meets his smile and goes to sit at the edge of the bed, facing him. “Hi. How are you?”

Cordelia looks at their shared gaze, the growing proximity between their bodies and picks up her magazine. “You might want to just get a ‘sexcapades start here’ flag. I’m taking the rest of the day,” she tells them over her shoulder as she leaves. Angel isn’t sure if she doesn’t face them because she’s just eager to go, or if she thinks that they’re going to have sex right away. Which is ridiculous. They’ve spent years not having sex. They can wait five minutes.

Twenty minutes later, Buffy settles on top of him. “You sure that you’re not lying about your head just to get the goods?”

Angel considers sitting up to lean against the headboard, but he _was_ lying, so he remains on the pillow. He can’t stop grinning. “Are you saying that you would deny me?”

Buffy rolls onto her side, settling in with a hand supporting her head. “Well, I’ve heard a rumor that after slaying you feel like getting funky, so really I decided not to deny _me_.”

“Where did you go slaying, by the way?” he asks, although it brings a sense of the world creeping in even as he does so.

“Still have the energy for more?” and he can tell by the way her speech is slightly rushed, abrupt, that she’s hiding something.

“Buffy?”

And because she doesn’t want to lie to him, because she doesn’t want to be the hypocrite who protects him, she looks into his face and forces her voice calm. “It was the Morah demon. It came back (I guess it’s handy to have your own Jesus juice to carry around) so Doyle and I went to find it. Apparently the jewel on its head is a big, red, “kill me here” sign, so I got it for real this time.” She seems to consider her words, adding quickly, “Not that you didn’t do a good job last time, it just needed, you know, a little extra death.”

There’s something chilly that slips into his chest as he thinks about his failure to kill it right the first time. He tries to berate himself quickly and move on. He tilts his head in a _huh_ gesture and asks Buffy if he can try pizza.

“Well, it’s still a few hours until sunrise…” she starts and then smiles, re-realizing what they have been given, and he falls in love with her all over again.

So they go out and he eats half a pizza and then they go home and fall exhaustedly asleep, his hand in her hair. There’s some comfort in knowing that they can do this or anything else again tomorrow.

But he wakes up at nine the next morning and he is panicking even before he opens his eyes. He sits up, pulls on a t-shirt. He wants to run, but realizes that he doesn’t know how far he can go, how much he can push his body before he must stop. Small bursts of panicked breath escape as he pushes himself up from the bed. Buffy wakes from the rocking and looks at him blearily. His heart slows just a little, the thought coming to him that he has had the privilege of getting to wake up with her, but something must still be ghosting through his eyes because she sits up, looking sharper and holding the covers to her chest.

“Angel?”

“It’s okay. Go back to sleep,” he tries, but she continues like he hasn’t even spoken.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. It’s just that…” He looks over her shoulder, not focusing on her face as he forces himself to respond. “I think that the other side of being human is starting to sink in.”

His peripheral vision is no longer as sharp, so she has stood with the blanket tucked around her and is reaching to grab her own shirt before he realizes it. She is nodding almost frantically. “Right. You probably want to get out there. Field the play. Play the field. See the normal side of girls…life! The normal side of life!” Somehow, while he has been standing mutely, she has rambled her way back into her clothes and halfway to the door.

He’s reminded yet again how slow his reflexes are now, but he manages to shake himself to attention and get to the door before she has gone through it. “Obviously that’s not what I meant. I don’t want to be seeing any fields or sides but yours.” He hopes that that is sensitive and understanding enough for her, because at the moment he is having trouble managing to remember that she needs that confidence. He doesn't remember humanity being so breathless, but it has been a couple of centuries since it was an issue for him. He's as safe as he can be now, but he's still using a significant amount of energy to focus on not totally breaking down. He's lucky that he's had a while to perfect his poker face. "Let's go out to breakfast. You had stuff to get, right? At your dad's? Let me drop you off and we can meet in an hour or so.”

She looks at him, still a bit suspicious. “I can just bring it back here. Maybe we could try showering together…”

The smile that comes to his face is involuntary, and it might be the thing that sells it when he tells her that he has someone to talk to first. It’s not strictly untrue, either, he thinks to himself as he offers a vase to the Oracles.

It takes him a minute to find the words. The male Oracle has no patience for it. He turns to his companion. “He remains dissatisfied. I grow so weary of this mortal fickleness.” He turns to go, but Angel futilely reaches out a hand.

“Wait!” He rests his hands in his pockets, looks down. “I love being human. It’s…” he breathes, more out of habit than necessity. “It’s a gift. But it’s one I can’t accept. I need to go back to the way I was. I haven’t fulfilled my purpose. I can’t…I can’t protect her like this.”

“ _Her_. Always the female-”

“Hush!” The other Oracle speaks in a strong, serene voice. She looks at Angel with pity. “Your intention is admirable, and had you come sooner, our intervention might have been possible. But too much time has passed. I am afraid that even we cannot fold these past days back into themselves. You must remain as you are.”

“But I need-!” He finds himself back in the gateway chamber. The vase is beside him. He feels utterly alone.

Buffy can sense that something is wrong as soon as they meet in the café, but he manages to push her off until they have finished. He starts toward his car, but shoves his keys in his pocket after a moment.

“Can we walk?”

It’s quiet for a moment, and he wishes for one of her slang-filled wandering speeches. But she has learned his waiting silence, and he is eventually forced to speak. “I went to see someone this morning. The Oracles. I asked them to change me back.”

“What? Why?” He stops because her voice has become small and panicked and he doesn’t allow that, not even when he is the cause.

He tucks her hand into one of his and looks straight into her face. “Because more than ever, I know how much I love you. And if I stay mortal one of us would wind up dead, maybe both of us.” He turns slightly. “But they wouldn’t turn me back.”

She pulls her hand from his. It strains his muscles, strips at his skin. She has forgotten how strong she is. “Good! After everything, I can’t believe that you could…God, Angel, did you even think about me? Or did you just ignore everything so you could go back to being a superhero?!”

“Do you think that I want that? Do you think it’s a matter of how much I can pick up or how long I can fight or how fast I can run? I love being able to be human, to be normal with you, but without my strength, I can’t protect you, I can’t protect anyone.” His voice is raised. He lets her pull him off to the side of the street. “This humanity wasn’t given as a reward, it was an accident. I still have things that I need to do. I still have people I need to help. But now it’s more dangerous for everyone.”

Buffy crosses her arms. “So what are you going to do? Find a vampire looking for a snack but hey, make sure to keep an Orb of Thesulah handy?”

He pulls back a little, hands in pockets, shadowed against the dim brick. “I’m going to leave. Travel for a while.” Her mouth collapses a little and then stiffens, because for a day she had dreams of a whole life laid before her and he has renewed their death. “I need some time to figure things out.” He forces himself to look down at her, and though she is sunlit from behind, she looks waning. He opens his arms at his sides and she presses herself into him without a word. “It isn’t fair to be with you until I know what I am.” He looks unseeingly over her head, but it doesn’t change the husk of tears in his voice.

“Isn’t the point that we figure it out together?”

“I think I’m dangerous to you right now,” he says, mouth against her hair. For all different reasons, nothing has changed.

“I hate you. So much,” she says, muffled, tears in her voice too. But it sounds like she loves him, and Angel closes his burning eyes because he doesn’t know which is worse. 

* * *

He's never been to Australia before. When he and Darla were on their destruction world tour, it had been a lengthy voyage, one that ended in too much sun and too little civilization to make it worth it. He had considered it as a place of exile early on after he had been cursed, when being around people had been unbearable, but being trapped with a group of unsuspecting sailors for months hadn’t seemed wise.

He flies this time, (he wasn’t _entirely_ honest with Cordelia regarding his finances, but she stopped complaining when he offered to continue to pay her salary while he was on what she called his “spiritual vision whatever”) crammed into a Qantas seat, wondering if a “spiritual vision whatever” should have a more elegant commencement and feeling slightly nauseous as they take off. He is in the aisle seat, but he can still see the streaked sky out the window as night begins to fall around them, the burning bush of color remaining behind his eyes as he pretends to sleep.

He doesn’t see much of sunset when he gets to Sydney. He quickly returns to vampire hours, sleeping through the day, leaving his room at night to wander the streets. It is December, summer in Australia, and as he walks in the dark he can hear the distant giddiness of university students nearing the end of their school term. Sometimes groups of them cross his path but he shadows himself and their voices soon fade.

He thinks of Buffy often. He doesn’t conjure her hair and features in those of other girls anymore, but he wonders about her. Is she doing well in school? Is she being safe in her slaying? Is she being safe with Spike around? Does she think of him? Does she hate him? Because he hates himself, for failing to help the forgotten ones in the night, for being ungrateful for something that should be a gift, for walking away from Buffy again.

He is thinking of her one night as goes to the store down the street from the motel where he is staying. He absently picks up a loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter (he eats a lot of sandwiches; he is even getting better at spreading the peanut butter on the bread. He never has it with chocolate) but Buffy is still on his mind as he leave the store, and he finds himself going in the opposite direction than he meant to. He walks farther into the neighborhood of mid-sized, non-descript houses before he comes out on a slope of green space overlooking the ocean. The sight of it, even in the dark- the water and the trees- makes something go still in his stomach, and he pictures Buffy there despite himself. He can see her clearly, turning shocked and confused, to see him for the first time in the light.

He finds himself by the water’s edge. There is a manmade pool, carved out of the rock. Farther down the shoreline, there is a bonfire. He can hear the typical teenage beach sounds, but they are far enough away that as he sets down his grocery bag on the sandstone surrounding the pool, he places his clothes in a pile beside it.

He wades into the water. It is not cold, but his skin goosebumps anyway, another of those strange milestones that leave him unsure how to feel. It is so weak, but so purely, insignificantly human.

He swims around a little, testing the water, testing his body. The moon is a beautiful, bright half that even his human eyes can see clearly.

After a few moments, he climbs the stone barriers at the edge of the pool, ducking under the chains meant to keep people from venturing into the open ocean.

He relaxes in the deeper water, floating on his back. He feels exhausted without cause. It has been days since he last spoke to someone other than mumbled pleasantries to the man at the grocery checkout or the maid as she comes to clean his room. He opens his eyes, staring up at the moon, but as he does, a wave of salt water comes over his face, into his senses, and pushes him down.

Everything burns, underwater: his eyes, his lungs, his panicked mind, as he struggles for the surface. Everything pulses- his heartbeat, the water around him- as he fights the waves. There isn’t room for him to think that perhaps this, just relaxing into it, might be the best way.

When he finally breaks into the air, he thinks he is crying.

* * *

Joyce is still at work when Buffy comes home to check if she has any mail. Being at home is still strange, because she’s not sure it is home anymore. Is that supposed to be her dorm room now?

Regardless, she moves around the house, taking a couple of cookies from the pantry. Her mind is like an overtired hamster that just keeps getting back on the little wheel. She deserves a few cookies after dealing with the Gentlemen and turning down Riley, even after she found out he’s one of the boys in blue (unless that’s postal workers?) and that’s not even mentioning the part where she hasn’t heard from Angel since he left the country, which was more than three weeks ago.

Finishing her Oreos, she goes to get her mail and go back to campus. It’s the expected pair of magazines, but something is staticked to the back of one of them.

The postcard has a picture of a beach on it, twilight making the water look like ice and fog. _Maroubra Beach, Sydney_ , curls across the bottom in faux-fancy type. She tastes the cookies in the back of her throat as she flips the card over.

 _One of the things about being human_ , it reads, _is that no matter how conflicted you are about it, your body desperately wants to live._

And then below that, Angel’s unmistakable handwriting smaller, and even more hesitant: _I don’t know how long it will take, but one day I’m going to come home and eat chocolate and peanut butter with you again. Somehow the peanut butter just doesn’t taste the same here._  

* * *

He likes Greece. It makes him feel young. The village where he stays has paved roads and telephone wires overhead; it’s not as if it has embalmed itself in an ancient life. But there is a timelessness to the stone houses, to the feeling of being cocooned by the mountains, that eases the part of him that feels timeworn.

There aren't many visitors around except for him. January isn't a big tourist season, and he had picked this place because it wasn't particularly well known, so whoever was there would be down enjoying the gorgeous beaches.

A couple runs the guesthouse where he is staying, and the woman recommends hiking trails, so he occupies his days climbing the silent paths of the surrounding mountains. He is breathing hard, his shirt chilly with sweat against his back as he gets to the top, and even though there is a weakness in his heart at the weakness in his body, there is also a satisfaction in the working of muscles and lungs.

He didn’t bring anything to eat on the day he does the longest trail (he still isn’t quite used to having to remember things like that), so he returns the guesthouse eager for lunch. There is some kind of chicken ready when he gets back, and he sits and tries to figure out what it is mixed with (artichokes maybe? They taste strange, but not bad. He can’t quite decide if he likes them).

The other owner sits nearby, a newspaper in front of him. When Angel looks up from his food examination to reach for another piece of chicken, the man is looking at him, amused and sparkle-eyed.

“Is your day going well?” Angel tries. His Greek, never great to begin with, is rusty, but the awkwardness of the statement has more to do with Angel then with his language abilities.

“My day is going as it goes,” the man says, his eyes crinkling even further. He leans forward. “But it is always a joy to watch you eat. My cooking is not even the best on this street, yet you savor it as if it is precious.”

Angel looks down. “I don’t think you can understand how precious it is.” 

* * *

“Did you have a nice night?” Joyce asks, that little rushing, worried rise in her voice.

“The only thing a night needs to be nice is to be demon free, and you successfully checked that box.” Buffy kisses her mother on the cheek. “Really, Mom, thanks for the birthday dinner.”

Joyce smiles and walks back into the kitchen. She calls, “Oh, before I forget, something came for you in the mail.”

There is a postcard, this one a picture of ivy-covered stone buildings against a background of snowy mountains. _I forget, sometimes, the smalls joys of being human, breathing and eating and growing older with every minute. I know it might seem like the flawed part, but they’re worthy of being celebrated. Happy birthday, Buffy._ When she tips the package over, a silver bangle bracelet falls into her palm, inset with a sapphire that has fissures of light emanating from the center,

“Do you have a college pen pal now?” Joyce asks as she looks on curiously from the kitchen doorway.

Buffy looks down at the bracelet, at the elaborate handwriting on the postcard. “Something like that,” she says, and a little bit of a smile touches her face.

* * *

February in northern India has Angel feeling chilled almost all the time. For the first time in centuries he wears a coat out of necessity rather than for appearances. But even in his first life he does not remember feeling the cold like this; he remembers running out of doors with his mother shouting after him to take a jacket so he wouldn’t freeze.

For all its shabbiness, the ironically named Hotel Paradise looks slightly enchanted under the light drift of crystalline snow, and when he wakes in the morning he can see the icy river from his window.

Still, any travel agent would disapprove of his poor planning in coming to Kashmir past the season to see their famous flower gardens and orchards. He passes them as he wanders, but there is nothing that he can see beginning to bloom. He will have to trust that the hibernating world is working as it should and that it will return to the light when it is ready.

One day Angel gets lost as the world darkens around him. He suspects he is near one of the cricket bat factories because there is a certain smell of wood and sharp cold in the air. It is a wintery, campfire smell that would be comforting if Angel were somewhere familiar. Sighing, he picks a direction at random and starts to walk.

Ten minutes later it is fully dark and he has no idea where he is. From over his shoulder there is a voice.

“May I help?”

It is a middle-aged man paused on the doorstep of one of the houses. Sawdust curls cling to his coat. Even in the dim light he seems to have a kind face.

“I might have lost myself a little,” Angel says, foolish and awkward.

The man smiles. “Then we will start with tea so you will not freeze, and then I will help you find yourself again.”

His name is Shuhul, and the tea he makes is saffron, the spice picked months ago from the fields in the area. Angel closes his eyes as he takes a sip, and when he opens them Shuhul is grinning. “I am glad to see that my saffron does not go unappreciated.”

They are seated at a low table. The room is dim and a little plush for Angel’s taste. Honestly, with its rugs and cushions and muted jewel tones, it reminds him of an opium den he visited a century and a half ago, but he doesn’t mention that.

“Your tapestry is very beautiful,” he says after a moment, indicating a blue and red wall hanging with a Qur’anic verse embroidered on it.

“Thank you,” says Shuhul. “I have had it for many years, but it often goes unnoticed.”

“You live here alone?”

The question has the possibility to seem threatening or intrusive, but Shuhul’s face only turns sad. “Yes. I was never so lucky to be married or have a family.” Angel is silent. Shuhul ducks his head toward his tea cup. “I often believe that to be my greatest regret. There is so much beauty I was planning to teach my children, but I was not blessed with any.” He shakes his head. “I apologize. This was too much for a meeting of strangers.”

“I don’t mind,” Angel says. “I think this is how we stop being strangers.” 

* * *

Willow comes in quietly, as if the room isn’t hers too. “Hey,” she says, trying for a muffled, gentle sort of cheerfulness, and even though Buffy knows that everyone is just trying to be kind, she hates their tiptoeing words and awkward pauses, the way they stop themselves when Riley’s name is going to come up. God, it’s not like Faith slept with her actual boyfriend- which would be basically impossible because he’s who knows where, and is he even her boyfriend?!- that’s not even the problem. It’s the way that Buffy doesn’t feel like she fits right in her own body anymore, like she doesn’t know who exactly she is, like she doesn’t know if her own fingers will move if she tells them to.

Willow has finished whatever made up bustling she was doing by her desk and comes to sit on her bed, facing Buffy. “I- I brought you some chocolate.” Her voice is tentative. “And I stopped by your place and picked up those extra cozy pajamas you forgot to bring.” She sets the items by Buffy’s feet. Buffy doesn’t move from where she is pondering the details of the ceiling, but she summons a smile.

“Thank, Will.”

“Oh, and your mom gave me your mail while I was there.”

Buffy sits up and takes the stack of papers, flipping through until she finds it. This time the postcard shows a spanning carpet of purple flowers, dusty mountains in the background. The little note identifies it as a saffron field in Kashmir.

_I don’t know if I remind you enough that it wasn’t you being the Slayer that saved me. It was just you, your energy and your gentleness and your spirit. And when I saw that, when I saw you, I knew that I would do anything to help you: I would fight or gather information, or just be someone who you could talk to, someone who understood freaky worlds that don’t make sense and pieces of yourself that are out of your control._

_I think sometimes I need to remember that those things- spirit, or support- are strengths too._

“You got smiley all of a sudden,” Willow says tentatively, fists balled to hold off celebration.

Buffy stands from the bed and grabs the chocolate bar. “Yeah. I guess I realized that I’m better than mind games. And body games.” She shrugs and takes a bite. “I am a girl of many strengths, and Faith can’t beat that.” 

* * *

The thing about middle-of-nowhere Russia is that they don’t really care about things like work permits or records, especially when the person in question seems to be a bored American tourist who works for free.

The city is small and not particularly wealthy, but they have a university and a university library that is well stocked and well built, a cleanly cut stone with pillars and a domed top. Sometimes Angel forgets the good that humans can do, the beauty that they can create. Just walking into the building reminds him, his shoulders relaxing as he watches the students bent seriously over books, taking notes or having vigorous, whispered arguments. Humans are not insignificant and short-lived. They are immense, necessary puzzle pieces. For as much as they destroy each other and the world around them, they also build and love and connect.

He is browsing one day early in his stay when he is mistaken for an employee. He helps that boy find the book he needs, and the girl who asks after that, and the next one and the next. The library is perpetually understaffed, so the librarians accept him readily, and soon he is shelving too, and advising students on the resources they need for their work.

Most of the librarians are older, so he is enlisted often to reach down heavy volumes or carry boxes of new or damaged books from one place to another. It fills his chest with something when they ask, a feeling of rueful half-humor and deep inadequacy, because while he might be the strongest among them his strength is nowhere near what it was only a few months ago.

They are building a bridge on the way back to where he is staying and he passes the construction site every day, the shouts of the workers mingling with the clang of girders and equipment. He watches the incremental process being made on the shoulders of these men now no different than he is.

One day as he walks past he hears a shout. His mind cannot process the exact words in time but he is already running from the road down toward the construction site because one of the catwalks where the workers stand is detaching. It is empty, but there is a man standing obliviously below. As Angel nears him, the shouted words justify in his mind. “Help,” they are shouting. “Deaf.”

There is no time to warn him. It takes less than three seconds for the wooden platform to fall once it disengages completely. Angel launches himself at the man, covering his body with his own. He can feel the confusion below him as the board falls on them both, the frayed ropes whipping, tentacle-like, around them.

Angel’s back and arms ache in the moment of the collapse and as he pushes up to get them out from underneath. He is a simple Atlas, only human, but protecting a world beneath him. As the worker’s face is once again exposed to light and air, Angel understands that while he will never be as strong as he was, the strength he does have can still do good. 

* * *

For all its craziness, sometimes Sunnydale is pretty boring. It’s too early to patrol, there’s no new information on Adam, no demons are rising this week, and doing her class reading sounds like death. She leaves campus and goes to her mom’s. It has been longer than usual since she heard from Angel. She wants to hear from him, to know that he is okay, but more than that she wants to talk to him. This one-sided thing is getting to that not okay point.

Still, she eagerly abandons all the other mail when she sees his postcard. The building is pretty but she can’t tell what it is; even when she squints, the writing on the front is in another language. She considers asking Giles, but Angel’s postcards are her thing. Everyone knows that he is away doing a whole world traveling thing, and that Buffy isn’t worried, but she doesn’t really talk about it. She shrugs off the thoughts and turns the card over.

 _I’ve lived in my body for so long that I stopped noticing it until it changed again. If anyone in the world knows what that, the naturalness of unnaturalness, is like, it is you. But you also know that when we lose that, we compensate. I don’t want to be a burden, a responsibility or a vulnerability to you or the world, and I hope with everything I have that I can take my body now to help._  

* * *

Galway looks nothing like he remembers. There is an element of country mouse to him as he gazes around at it, the transformed, greatly grown place of his childhood. But when he closes his eyes, he can still feel it all familiarly: the energy of the river and the striving opinions of the people.

There is a subdivision around the cemetery where his family is buried. There is something almost threatening about the identical houses ranked along the roads, seeming to be held from taking over only by the low stone wall.

It takes hours to find the graves. A sign at the front lists the council and the historical society as managers, but they have apparently not managed the upkeep well. When he finally finds the stones- a shared one for his parents, a small one beside it for his sister- they are overgrown with dandelions and grass, sinking slightly into the soft earth. He has been exercising, pushing himself purposefully, and he can already feel the change in his muscles as he crouches beside them.

“I’ve never apologized to you,” he says. “Not out loud.”

It is not silent around them. There are no people nearby, but life gives off a sound all on its own.

“I’ve always thought that if I had just been less of a drunk and a fool and a disappointment, if I had just been _better_ as a human, then maybe I would never have caused the amount of damage that I did. It really...it weighs on you, knowing that somewhere inside you’re capable of those things.

“I’m older now than any of you ever would have gotten to be, and I don’t know that I’ve done enough to make up for what I have done. I don’t know if I can ever do enough. But I know I can try. Even if this, being human again, was a mistake, I can use that. I was nothing and I became something. I can do it again.”

It is dark when he leaves the graves. He walks through the neighborhood toward Claddagh Quay. Near the church, a woman calls to him, a smile in her voice.

“Hello there, lovely.” She is tall and dark-haired as she comes out of the shadows. She slips an arm around him. “I’ve something to show you. Would you join me?”

He does not hesitate, does not imagine himself with his old, unaging strength, his piercing senses. He slides the stake into her heart from behind, pensive and almost gentle. “I’ve already lived that life,” he says as the dust shifts to the ground. “Now I’m looking for a new one.” 

* * *

The night after seeing the First Slayer, Buffy sleeps strangely. She wakes early, restless, and goes downstairs. There is a message on the answering machine and she starts to listen.

“Buffy, it’s Doyle.” She smiles at that broad accent of his. She’s not totally sure what he and Cordelia have been doing for the past few months, but she thinks there’s been a demon support group involved because why should therapy just be all the rage in humans? “Don’t panic. Listen, I had a vision just now. Thought I got rid of them, but apparently they’re my bad penny. Anyway, I think that Angel is-”

There is a clanking, metallic sound as the mail is delivered, and Buffy moves toward the door, Doyle’s voice fading to background, knowing that there will be a letter, and what it will say.

_I’m coming home soon. I might even be in LA by the time you get this. Sunnydale has its problems, but they’re well taken care of. LA needs someone on the night shift. I only hope that Cordelia hasn’t been decorating the office while I was gone._

_I have many things to apologize for over the past few months. You don’t deserve to have people always leaving you. You deserve to be able to communicate with me on a level field. I only hope that you understand that the fault was mine. I didn’t know who I was, or who I could be. I’m sure you could have told me six months ago in LA, but I needed to find out for myself._

_More than anything I want to get off the plane and come to you, but I know that it isn’t fair to assume that you want me. I have taken your choice away so many times, made so many decisions for you when I trust you to make them for yourself. So I’ll be in LA, and I will wait for you. If you want me to come to Sunnydale, I will come to you. If you never want to see me again, I will understand._

_I hope that you know this: that I love you, I admire you, and I hope you are safe and loved always._

_Angel_

She thinks about writing him a letter, getting out her glitter pens from middle school and writing a big YES next to “Do you like me?” and a maybe beside “Do you need some time?” But it has been enough time. She goes upstairs to get dressed. The whole mysterious, Jane Austen love letter bit has been tolerable, but it’s really not her thing. She is, after all, a modern girl, and modern girls enjoy a nice dramatic reunion. With talking. And maybe sex.

Probably sex.

Definitely sex. With her human, but never normal, boyfriend.

And she is going to enjoy it all.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my tumblr-recruited betas, g-swag-g and teenagegumshoe, who perfectly fit my request for speed, gentleness and thoroughness. Title from my favorite section of Samuel Taylor Coleridge's _Rime of the Ancient Mariner_ :  
> Alone, alone, all, all alone  
> Alone on a wide wide sea!  
> And never a saint took pity on  
> My soul in agony.
> 
> The many men, so beautiful!  
> And they all dead did lie:  
> And a thousand thousand slimy things  
> Lived on; and so did I.


End file.
